Pack Mentality
by jan.lakomiec
Summary: For the first time in his life, Zilla is alone. (Alternate title: "Zilla in the MonsterVerse".)
1. Awakening

Unbidden, he awakens. Even through the thick layer of ground and rock, hanging heavy above his head, the Alpha's call is loud, commanding and unmistakable. It stirs a primal urge in the depths of his still-waking mind, one he has not felt in millennia but responds to with a familiarity born of instinct: _obey the Alpha_.

Zilla is letting out a warbling cry of _attention _even before his eyes fully open, in a voice that is thick with post-hibernation sleepiness. Taking stock of his body takes him a moment; his limbs move sluggishly, their movements having been slowed by the long sleep, and reacquainting himself with them takes him longer than it should. He only realizes his call went unanswered after he's blinked away the last of the bleariness distorting his vision.

Darkness surrounds him from all sides, forcing him to wait until his eyes grow accustomed to it. Another call dies in the back of his throat when the eerie sight greets him: the tunnel is empty. Suddenly acutely aware of how cold he is, Zilla turns his head to where his Packmate's body should be pressed against his side and finds the spot empty. Pack is gone.

A distressed trill escapes him, before he can stop it. Where have his brothers gone, why have they left him?

The Alpha's beckoning call arrives once again, in tandem with Zilla's own cry of _alarm-location?_, though the saurian's growing worry pushes it out of the forefront. Silence and the returning echo of his own voice are his only answers. For as long as he can remember, he has never been alone, until now; the thought makes him shudder, talons curling and puncturing the bedrock. Without the warmth of his Packmates' bodies to warm him, he feels like he is freezing.

There are no scents for him to pick up when he tries to sniff out the familiar smell of Pack, all long gone without even the tiniest of traces, as though they have never existed in the first place. All he can sense is his own growing fear, pungent and fresh. Unwilling to succumb to panic just yet, instead he wills his body to move, biting back another keening whine.

The underground system of tunnels Pack had chosen as their resting place, is an intricate maze Zilla soon finds himself lost in. He doesn't recognize some of the passages he pushes through, and the ones he dimly remembers being open before, he now finds to be blocked off by rubble. With each passing minute, the ball of dread in his stomach grows, as he finds no evidence of Pack living in the area. No scents, no shed scales, no tracks, nothing.

Desperate, he calls out again, his voice high-pitched and panicked, _distress-distress-need-comfort-answer_. His cries are met with unrelenting silence once more, as the stony walls bearing down on him seem to be growing nearer and nearer, deaf to his pleas. Breathing grows heavy and ragged, his heart beats harder and faster, filling his ears with its incessant _thud-thud-thudding_. He feels like he's been running aimlessly in circles for hours, long enough for his cries to devolve into nonsensical whimpers and wails. A strange pressure builds behind his eyes, clogging up his sinuses and he snorts a few times, trying to clear his nose of the sudden obstruction. It persists, despite his best attempts.

Eventually, Zilla pauses, half-hunched over with his dorsal plates scraping the tunnel's vault, in a round cave, indiscernible from others. It fills quickly with the sound of his heavy, yet hollow, pants, their volume amplified by the empty space surrounding him, as they ricochet off the walls to create a deafening cacophony that threatens to burst his eardrums. Starting to feel light-headed, he drops to his knees and curls up into a ball, pressing the top of his head against the cool, uneven surface of the cave's flooring, and tries to imagine Pack around him, comforting him with low, concerned warbles and careful nuzzles. He screws his eyes shut tightly, seeing their features behind closed eyelids, and for a brief moment, just a second, he feels as though they are truly there with him, he feels _warm _and _safe._

But then his eyes open again and he is met with an empty, hollow, _dead _space, devoid of the familiar presence, cold and unwelcoming, taunting him.

With a screeching roar he lashes out at the low-hanging canopy of rock, splitting it easily with his sickle-like claws.

_Out-out-out-out-escape_ he chants in between angry – _broken _– snarls, uncaring of the dust and pebbles that rain down into his open maw, coating his hide with a thick layer of dirt, too focused on the pressing need of space and no more tunnels. Rock and stone alike, relent and crumble under his furious swipes, cascading in twin streams down his sides and into the cavern below and threatening to drag him down with them. But their cold, steady defiance is nothing to his fiery rage.

Sunlight greets him before long, and Zilla screeches in protest as its blinding rays burn his sensitive eyes. The ground, suddenly turning soft and sandy with no prior warning, gives in under his forearms and, out of balance, he tumbles tail-over-head down the hillside with an undignified roar. He comes to a stop at the land formation's base, sprawled uncomfortably on his back with his dorsal plates sunken deeply in the yellow-brown sand.

The nearby sound of the surf and the overbearing smell of salty water carried upon a light breeze eventually coax him into opening his eyes again. The Sun warms his scales pleasantly and small waves lap at his toes, buried in the wet sand, as he glances around through half-open eyes. Three fourths of his view is made up of water, its blue expanse reaching as far as his eyes could see, stretching for immeasurable miles until it melded with the sky on the horizon. The rest of it is the small island he's found himself on; the wind carries with it sounds both familiar and not: the rustling of trees, the shifting foliage, the strange, distant song tweeted out by a creature Zilla's not heard before.

It is serene, peaceful in an almost unnatural way, and Zilla would, perhaps, be even able to enjoy the view on a different occasion. Now, his mind is much too preoccupied to allow itself a moment to admire the insular paradise, as he is already belting out another call of _distress-assistance-location?_, all the while trying to drag himself from the dirt's mucky embrace. Without the thick walls of the underground tunnels to stifle them, his roars are clear and audible, carried far by the wind. As soon as the last note of his call has rung out, Zilla is greeted with complete silence; the song he's been hearing cuts off mid-tune and isn't picked up. Even the trees seem to have fallen silent. A strange feeling washes over the Titan, and he can hardly stop himself from shivering again at the revelation it brings.

He doesn't belong here.

Zilla turns, putting his back to the ocean and facing the small cluster of trees that clings to the hill's side. He peers between the trees, searching for any sign of life, a disturbed bush, a nudged leaf, anything. Nothing moves, nothing even makes a sound.

Taking half a step back and feeling the cool waters splashing at his feet, Zilla lets out a small whimper. He is a trespasser, disturbing the order of a place he has no right to be in. If he were with Pack, he would snarl at the island's silent contempt, challenge it with a roar and torch the offending copse along with all its potential inhabitants.

But Pack isn't here, and he is alone. Without Pack, he is nothing. Weak, helpless, isolated…

His head shifts and his eyes turn to the horizon, as another deep, humming call draws his attention away from the island: another of the Alpha's summons. Almost as if moving of their own accord, his feet turn him around and carry into the watery depths, obeying the order without a second thought. Though even as the ocean's cold waters close around him like an icy cocoon, a small spark of hope flares up among the shadows of his mind: if he's heard the Alpha's call and been so drawn to its source, then perhaps Pack has as well. Maybe they are already by the Alpha's side, waiting for him to arrive.

He clings to that thought desperately. The mental image of Pack chastising him for his straggling and nipping his neck as playful punishment, drives newfound strength into the lashes of his tail and, determined, he heads northeast, to where the Alpha awaits.


	2. Journey

Even though swimming has always been one of Zilla's favorite activities, he can scarcely find any enjoyment in it now. Alone in the murky depths, without Pack there to frolic with, he feels even more alone than he had in the tunnels. The Sun on the island may have warmed his skin, but it did little to quell the coldness that, even now, flows through his veins and chills his heart. The coldness of the water, somehow, feels more appropriate to him.

He has no idea where he is. These waters don't feel familiar and, if it weren't for the Alpha's call pulsating in the distance like a shining beacon, he would have long gotten lost. Briefly, he wonders how long he has been asleep for. When hibernating, one doesn't really perceive the passage of time in any way. It may have been decades, centuries, entire millennia… The thought does little to comfort him, rather the opposite, but, at the least, it is pulling his attention away from despairing over the loss of Pack.

Other ocean dwellers scatter when he swims too close to them, wheeling out of his way and shooting off into the darkness. Most, he doesn't recognize, from what little of them he can see. The light, broken and dimmed by the water's surface, reflects off their smooth hides, making them glisten faintly, as they angle out of his way. For a brief moment, he feels the juvenile want to veer after one of the elusive creatures and get a closer look, but stops himself from doing so. He is on a mission, he doesn't have time for games.

For the most part, he swims with his head down and his eyes glued to the unchanging darkness below him. It's mind-numbing, repetitive, and lulls his mind into a pleasantly dulled haze.

The reprieve from thoughts about Pack doesn't last nearly as long as he would've liked. A strange sound reaches him from afar, forces him to lift his head, from where it was pressed against his chest, and narrow his eyes. At a distance of several body lengths, a group of elliptical shadows bobs upon the calm waves of the surface. They are the sources of the noise: a low, steady thrumming hum, that sends vibrations through the water around Zilla.

It feels unfamiliar, it feels strange. _Danger_, his mind supplies him and his heart beats harder in his chest.

With an instinctive sense of conviction, he realizes he must have trespassed on someone's territory, that he is staring down an opposing pack, and that he is alone. He's never been in a fight alone, without Pack at his sides to support him. Dread swells in the pit of his stomach, steals his breath away for a moment.

He doesn't know what to do, just floats in place torn between pushing on and turning tail.

Another of Alpha's summons washes over his conflicted brain, beckons him forward against his better judgment, fills his mind with images of Pack. He can't be certain whether they're by Alpha's side or not, but if he retreats now, he will never know for sure. With a low, keening whine, he obeys.

Water parts as his body emerges from beneath it, cascading down the sides of his head and back in foamy waterfalls. The setting Sun colors the sky orange-pink, and the waters purple-azure, while its rays glint off the oddly iridescent bodies of the defending Pack. They're odd things, all sharp edges, long, oddly curved bodies, with slanted armor plates and bunches of appendages that remind Zilla faintly of horns, or spikes: they are all pointed at him.

Zilla cocks his head sideways, confused. There are eight of them: two larger ones, with more horn-spikes, in the center, flanked on either side by the other, smaller, ones. They're all standing – floating – in a slightly curved line, their flanks facing Zilla, warding him off from moving further in land. They also don't appear to have heads. Or legs, for that matter.

Observing them closer, Zilla can't tell if the postures they've assumed are meant to be a threat display; they don't appear to be growling, the key of their call remains steady and unchanged and they've made no move to engage him.

Without Pack at his flanks, Zilla doesn't feel particularly drawn to the prospect of fighting an opposing pack. Even though the largest of the floating-horn-spike-legless-beings, which he assumes are their alphas, are no longer than him, he is still outnumbered. His primal instinct tells him to flee, to regroup with Pack and strike as one. But there is no Pack to regroup with, he is alone. He almost whimpers out loud at the thought. At the last second, he stops himself, he's been in enough stand-offs in his life to now that any sign of weakness would provoke an immediate attack.

Instead, he angles his head down, waves licking idly at his nose and chin, and to the side in what he knows as the most non-threatening posture.

_Threat-not_, he tries to call out in a careful trill, mindful of not making any overly loud vocalizations that might antagonize them. _Alpha-location?_ he adds, hoping that maybe this pack have also heard the Alpha's calls, and will either understand his attempted breach of their territory, or lead him to his destination.

The answer he receives is none of those things. First, a loud booming sound splits the air; it reminds Zilla, briefly, of the tunnel's ceiling crackling and crumbling, and he instinctively flinches. Then something _slams_ into the out-facing side of his neck, with enough force to make him stumble, and another deafening sound, this one much closer than the last, makes his ears ring. A flower of orange and red flame blossoms starkly against his grey-black hide, and the leftover moisture, still clinging to his scales, evaporates in an instant, forming into lines of wispy steam from the extreme heat, that conjoin with the smoke from the blast into clouds of throat-scratching soot. It leaves behind a blackened spot with irregular edges, where the scales have been singed.

Before he can even react to the first one, another projectile hits just above his shoulder and knocks him further off balance with a screech that is equal parts pain and surprise. The air is filled with the dizzying roar of the legless pack's horn-spikes, the sea churns as their balls of flame explode among the crashing waves, and in all the chaos and confusion, disoriented and blinded, Zilla allows instinct to guide him.

He throws himself head-first into the rough waves, immediately makes a sharp U-turn when another explosion goes off right above him and dives down low. The jagged rocks and outcroppings of the sea floor scrape against his underbelly, as he slithers below his foes' floating bodies and shoots off towards the direction they've been defending.

For a brief moment, Zilla manages to catch a breath. He is too deep for them to reach with their screaming spikes of fire. Then something cuts through the water around him, producing an ominous whiz, and strikes his side with greater force than any of the previous hits. The sound of the explosion is subdued, muffled, and instead of fire, a cloud of bubbles momentarily surrounds him. He groans, pained, and his ribs, which feel bruised up at the least, scream in protest when he stretches out and paddles forward, away from the legless pack.

More whizzing spikes pursue him. They are slower than then horn-spikes' projectiles, he can dodge them more easily, veering right, jerking left. Instead of his body, they hit the bottom, kicking up dirt and debris that swivel in miniature vortexes all around him, limiting his vision and forcing ragged coughs out of him, as the mixture irritates his nostrils and sinuses.

He isn't sure how long he has been swimming for, only realizes how close to a land mass he has gotten, when the sea floor rises up in a steep slope from below him and turns into a dark, towering mountain that looms over him in the murky, coastal depths. The claws of his forelimbs scrape across the rocky surface, searching for purchase and, with some difficulty, he pulls himself out onto the shore.

In a slight daze, he trudges forward, taking careful, measured steps. The strange, ringing sound in his ears persists, despite his best attempts at shaking it off with harsh jerks of his head. A mixture of water and mucky sludge drips from his flanks, leaving behind dull brown stripes, drying and solidifying from the cold breeze blowing over his hunched over body.

Zilla swivels his head to the side, sniffing tentatively at the spot, where the underwater spike struck him. It's not blackened like the side of his neck, though a visible indent mars his otherwise smooth hide, and it stings with the familiar ache of an under-skin bruise when he touches it with the tip of his tongue.

Growling, he turns his head to look out onto the open sea he's turned his back into. He can't see the legless pack anywhere near him, though he briefly thinks he catches their unnatural glint blinking at him ostentatiously near the horizon. Perhaps they gave up in their pursuit, or they might be following him, still. Zilla doesn't plan on sticking around long enough to find out.

A distant rumble of thunder draws his attention from the sea, to the sky. The Sun has disappeared, leaving behind a grey-black darkness, though even against the night sky, the billowing clouds, illuminated from below by zigzagging yellow bolts of lightning, stood out visibly. Transfixed, Zilla pauses to stare at the otherworldly display. The scent of ozone hangs heavy in the air, even though the eye of the storm appears to be far, far away; it tastes strangely in the back of Zilla's throat, not at all like the storms he's used to experiencing.

_Distress_, he warbles softly, failing to suppress a shiver that runs down his spine, and not for the first time misses Pack with the pain of an open, gaping wound.

The land around him is dark, silent and alien. He keeps his steps light and quiet, subconsciously worried of disturbing the ambience with a too-loud sound. Trees grow in large clusters here, in the shadows of tall mountains, with winding rivers encircling them. No, not rivers. Zilla's nostrils flare, attempting to pick up their scent, but all he senses are the trees, dirt and the distant smell of salt water. Confused, he bows his head low and presses his nose against the surface, only to realize it's solid, not water, and oddly scratchy.

He recoils, snorting in surprise, the pupils of his eyes dilating to get a better look in the absence of a source of light. What he had thought to be a river is pale grey, cracked in places and notably not a river at all. He is reminded of the legless pack with their horn-spikes and underwater-spears, and takes a cautious step back, growling faintly in alarm. It feels different, _wrong_. Zilla doesn't like it.

From now on, he makes sure to avoid the not-rivers, sticking, instead, to the fresh-smelling and familiar ground, occasionally trampling over a grove in his haste.

And then something else catches his eye, makes him pause mid-step, and crouch low in alarm. Several paces forward, and to the right, something glows and twinkles in the night, bright like the stars. But stars are meant to glimmer in the sky, not shine from a spot nestled between two smooth-tipped peaks.

Has the whole world gone mad during his hibernation, Zilla wonders briefly, inching towards the unnatural phenomena. Weariness battles with unbridled curiosity in his mind: his instinct tells him to flee, that what you don't know will most likely kill you, but he can't help himself, he just needs to take a quick look and be on his way. What could have possibly shot stars out of the sky, or have they fallen by themselves?

There's a noise in the background, growing steadily, at first nearly inaudible, which led to Zilla initially ignoring it, but when it shrieks past his head with a high-pitched cry, he starts paying it a lot more attention. He jerks his head, trying to follow its trajectory but it's too fast and small for him to pick out in the darkness, and then something lands on his back, in between his scutes.

With erratic movements, he tries to look over his shoulder to see what it was, and just as he does, an explosion of light, flame and sound blinds him. He screeches, stumbling under the weight of the blow, the bright orange-red seared into his vision, appearing again with each time he closes his eyes. Another follows, then another, and another, and he can barely keep himself upright anymore.

_Stop!_ he roars, swaying like a leaf in the storm under the unrelenting hail, that doesn't feel like anything he's ever experienced: harder than rocks, hotter than flames, more painful than tearing claws.

His assailants are numerous, Zilla can hear them approaching each time, one after the other, then the pain follows. He manages to snag one by some stroke of luck: a quick lunge forward and he feels something sour and coppery and _disgusting_ spread into a puddle on his tongue. Without much thought, he spits out, cringing.

He's slowly backing away from the grounded-stars-that-aren't-stars, lashing out in uncoordinated strikes and attacks at the invisible fliers and screaming in protest each time one of their flame balls explodes against his back or flank. It is an uneven fight, one that Zilla isn't sure he can win. The underlying exhaustion from his journey, the pain of his previous wounds, the unabated cold…

With a final furious screech, he turns around and sprints off into the darkness. He lets his legs carry him, focusing on biting back wails of pain, as each thunderous step rocks every fiber of his bruised, hurting body.

No chase is given, the flying demons with their stinging horns don't follow him, he can't hear their buzzing anymore. But Zilla doesn't slow down. He keeps running throughout the night, steering clear of anything that even remotely resembles that accursed glow, anything that smells even slightly alien.

It's not until the pale Sun rises from beyond dispersing clouds, casting the land around him in weak light, not until his legs cease to obey him and the sting of his injuries catches up to him, that he slows down. His heart beats heavily in his chest, as if meaning to further bruise his ribs with its force, and his lungs burn and ache in a way they have never had.

Zilla stumbles forward, at a more subdued pace, wheezing and panting, vision swimming in and out of focus. At first, he doesn't realize he has reached his destination, the realization dawns on him slowly, forced to push itself through the cottony cloud of haziness that encompasses his brain. That same fog prevents him from immediately remembering that he hasn't heard Alpha's call since the encounter with the legless pack.

_Need-location-answer-comfort-distress-distress_, the calls fall out of his partially open maw in complete disarray, crossing over one another and creating a jumbled mess of sound, unintelligible even to Zilla's own ears.

For what feels like the hundredth time, Zilla finds himself in a strange, unfamiliar place. He doesn't have the energy to be concerned about it anymore. The landscape around him is barren, constructions of strange shapes, bent at odd angles, blackened by soot and flame, rise from dust-and-ash coated ground, like dead trees jutting out from scorched soil after an inferno. Everything reeks of death, its heavy stench making Zilla gag subconsciously, of scorched flesh, of blood spilled, of dying embers and falling ash.

Once again, he is alone. No one is waiting for him. No Pack, no Alpha, no one.

The ground he steps on is cold and _wrong_, it crunches and breaks under his feet, as he trudges onwards, wandering aimlessly to and fro. He's seen a graveyard once, of Pack's making, the bones of their prey looked a lot like these strange shapes, contorted, as though, in the final throes of death.

_Di s_-, another series of calls is interrupted by a heavy coughing fit, that leaves his head spinning and knees buckling beneath his weight.

Zilla takes an unsteady step, his foot catches on some unseen obstacle; he trips and falls with a low grunt that is more resigned than pained. He doesn't move to stand up.

His sides rise and fall laboriously, as he wheezes, eyes half-lidded, maw partially open, the ashen shower his fall has kicked up falling over his prone form like a blanket. Exhaustion weighs heavy on his mind. Lying in the open like this is dangerous, he knows. It is a death wish, an open invitation for another predator to come and end him. Zilla isn't sure if he cares, though.

With his last hope gone, all he can do now is wait for death to claim him. At least then, he will be able to see Pack again…

The inky void of unconsciousness wraps around him in a stifling embrace the moment his eyes slip close. It brings little comfort or reprieve. His dreams are chaotic jumbles of noise and flashing images: the legless pack and the shrieking fliers are attacking him again, their horn-spikes sear the flesh from his bones. Above their roar and his own screams of pain, a voice rises, audible, clear, familiar.

When he awakens, he feels even more exhausted. His limbs feel like they've been weighed down with boulders, his mind is hazy, thoughts are slow and his entire body aches in a way it never has before. For the longest time he lies there, among the ashes and death, drifting somewhere between lucidness and the dreamland. Through half-open eyes, he stares at the decimated landscape, as it slowly disappears in the long shadows of twilight, but doesn't truly see it.

There is a gaping, hollow hole in the place of his heart. He supposes it's been there since his awakening, he just refused to pay it much mind, too convinced Pack was still out there, despite all the clues proving him otherwise at each step. A numbness has settled over him, as though the life has already been sucked out of his body, leaving behind a cold, withered shell. He is content with lying here, waiting, slowly dying, until the wind peels flesh from bone, turns it to dust and scatters in any which way.

_Location-Pack-follow_

At first, he doesn't hear it, writes it off as a hallucination, a wishful thought conjured up by a sleep-deprived mind.

_Location-Pack-follow_

It returns after a moment, like an annoying fly buzzing over his ear. His glazed over eyes regain some clarity, pupils dilate slightly.

_Location-Pack-follow_

Suddenly fully awake, he pries his heavy had from the ground and turns it in the direction the call is coming from. It's heavy, dangling uncomfortably from his neck, but he is determined to keep it up, straining to pick up the words carried by the wind.

_Location-Pack-follow_

He recognizes it. He _knows_ it. But it can't be, he has just come to terms with them being gone.

His voice is rough and hoarse when he responds with a warble of _location?-distress-confirmation?_. Seconds trickle by, as he sits frozen, too afraid to suck in a breath in fear of missing the response, a spark of hope, renewed one last time, kindles somewhere behind his deathly cold heart.

_Location-Pack-follow_

A trill of happiness escapes him, as he scrambles to his feet. Ash shimmers in the air around him, caught in the last rays of the setting Sun, enveloping Zilla in almost ethereal-like glow, as he breaks out into a half-sprint, half-limp. His legs groan in protest, as he forces them to move, but he ignores them, his mind fixated on one thing and one thing alone.

_Location-Pack-follow_

There is no mistake, even with his half-crazed mind he can clearly recognize the familiarity of that call. The call of an Alpha is a common frequency, no matter the species uttering it, it is always the same, easily confused between Dagon or Mothra or another Titan. Pack broadcasts on one frequency, no other Titan can mimic it. He knows it by heart.

He runs faster than he ever remembers running it, faster even than when the flying spike-launching foes attacked him. Foam rises up in the back of his throat and spills from his parted jaws, coloring the corners of his maw a sickly white-pink. The scaly area around his nose takes on a red hue, visible clearly against his dark hide, as his nostrils flare to their full extent, threatening to tear. His lungs ache, breaths turning into wheezing, wet gasps.

Beneath his feet, the ground steadily shifts from grassy, wet-brown to dried, auburn-yellow. Trees give way to small, frail bushes, too small for him to notice. Mountains morph into hills, which flatten out into plains. The wind no longer carries with it the scent of sea, it's hot and lifeless, not quite a desert yet, but carrying grains of sand on the breeze.

_Location-Pack-follow_

It's closer now, he is almost there. A large formation of brick red rock rises up from the darkness, taller than him several times; its top is flat and wide like a plateau and its sides are ribbed and steep. It's a good place for a nest, easily defended and hard to reach for anyone who's not an experienced climber, Zilla thinks and his tail gives a slight wag of excitement. The call is coming from its top, Pack is waiting for him there!

_Here-here!_, he trills, bounding forward .

His claws dig into the rock, it holds firm and provides solid purchase for his hands and feet, as he scrambles up the slope, miniature avalanches of boulders, uprooted shrubs and heaps of dirt sliding down from the deep furrows his fingers make. Determination and longing burn within him hotter than the ache of pulled muscles and flared up bruises, as his claws hook over the edge and he drags himself over the top, back legs bucking wildly as he struggles briefly with gravity, finally overcoming it to flop onto the plateau and crooning welcomingly…

A small, black rectangle rests right in its center, three body length away from Zilla. The upper portion of it is spinning around in slow circles, blinking slowly in a pale blue light, constantly producing a small humming noise and then _location-Pack-follow. _Another spin, then the light goes out and it stops turning.

Zilla sits, frozen, staring incomprehensibly at what had been calling out to him in Pack's language up until now, for what feels like an eternity. He doesn't know what it is; he inches closer, bumps it with the tip of his muzzle. It falls over at the lightest nudge, bleeding sparks, and crumples with a crunch; it resembles the legless pack's bodies with its odd sheen and not-alive scent. Mutely, he stares right, then left, as if hoping that perhaps this is a part of some elaborate prank, that Pack will come burrowing out from underground any second now.

He waits, and waits. The wind howls loudly, whipping his heaving sides, sending clouds of pink-hued foam flying everywhere from his maw. Nothing stirs, no one comes.

Icy fingers grasp his heart, squeeze it until he's gasping for air. Pressure builds up behind his eyes, clogging up his sinuses with an invisible substance, looking for an outlet that doesn't exist. He drops to his knees, hunching over awkwardly, bracing himself on his front limbs, head cradled between them and pressed to his heaving chest.

For a while, he remains like that, shivering, body wrecked with tearless, gasping sobs, clawed fingers digging deep into the rocky plateau, mutilating it and turning into an unrecognizable mush.

Pack is gone. Truly, honestly _gone_. He is alone; completely, utterly _alone_.

Something breaks inside him, he throws his head back, and _screams_.


End file.
